


Everything You Touch

by GreyMichaela



Series: Winnipeg Jets [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, Little Bit Crack, M/M, Matchmaking, Obliviots in love, Pining, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 15:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17664839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: “H’v y’noticed?” Adam shouts.Brandon gives him a baffled look. “Noticed what?”He’s definitely more sober than Adam right now. That can't be right. Adam’s like twice his size. Shouldn’t he be able to drink Brandon under the table?Blinking, he realizes he’s lost the thread of the conversation and Brandon’s still waiting patiently for his answer.“You’re tiny,” Adam tells him.“I’m really not,” Brandon says, but his lips are twitching. “It’s not my fault you’re the size of three moose put together. Have I noticed what?”Adam frowns. “I don’t know, what?”Brandon shakes his head. “You are smashed, buddy. Come on, let’s go while you can still walk.”





	Everything You Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked me for my take on Brandon Tanev/Adam Lowry after that infamous video that just made the rounds. So this is my response.
> 
> Real people, work of fiction, no disrespect intended, etc. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not actually in the Jets' fandom, so I was winging it as far as characterization, based on watching a lot of interviews and reading articles. If anything is wildly out of character or I messed up any details about the team, please feel free to let me know!

At first, Adam doesn’t even realize it’s happening. It’s not like his teammates could ever be accused of subtlety, but somehow,  _ somehow, _ every time they go out to eat, get on a bus, or board a plane, Adam finds himself next to Brandon.

And, well. It’s not like he’s going to complain about that. Brandon’s one of his favorite people, after all. Being near him makes Adam feel good. Maybe it’s the way Brandon laughs at his dorky jokes, or the cookies he brings him—Adam is honor-bound to chirp him for them, but he secretly loves them. Maybe it’s Brandon’s big dark eyes, the way he arches his brows and fights a smile when Adam’s being particularly dumb for his benefit.

Whatever, it doesn’t matter. The point is, it takes Adam several weeks to realize that the team is somehow managing to make it look completely accidental, the way the only empty seat is always beside Brandon, no matter where they are.

They’re currently in the back of a very loud nightclub, Adam sandwiched in against Buff on one side and Brandon on the other. Buff’s talking with his hands, which always poses a risk to life and limb, so Adam’s leaning into Brandon to avoid him. The bass thumps in his teeth, the flashing lights making him wince.

For as small as he is, Brandon is surprisingly sturdy. He’s taking Adam’s weight without even a sign that he’s bothered by it, fingers curled loosely around his mug of beer.

“H’v y’noticed?” Adam shouts.

Brandon gives him a baffled look. “Noticed what?”

He’s definitely more sober than Adam right now. That can't be right. Adam’s like twice his size. Shouldn’t he be able to drink Brandon under the table?

Blinking, he realizes he’s lost the thread of the conversation and Brandon’s still waiting patiently for his answer.

“You’re tiny,” Adam tells him.

“I’m really not,” Brandon says, but his lips are twitching. “It’s not my fault you’re the size of three moose put together. Have I noticed what?”

Adam frowns. “I don’t know, what?”

Brandon shakes his head. “You are smashed, buddy. Come on, let’s go while you can still walk.” He helps Adam slide out of the booth and pulls one of his arms over his shoulders. “See you guys back at the hotel,” he shouts over the music to the rest of the table, and Adam waves happily at them as Brandon steers him through the crowds to the door.

It’s cold outside, and Brandon makes him stop and pull his coat on. Adam paws at the sleeve but his arm won’t cooperate. Brandon huffs and grabs his wrist, guiding it to the armhole, and Adam sighs with relief as he tugs the coat up over his shoulders and huddles inside its warmth.

“S’cold,” he says as Brandon puts his arm around Adam’s waist and they begin to walk.

“Good catch,” Brandon says dryly.

Adam is proud of himself for as long as it takes to get back to the hotel, by which point he’s bored and beginning to fidget, and Brandon has to practically drag him into the elevator.

“You’re so cute,” Adam tells him as Brandon hits the button for their floor, and Brandon jerks, startled.

“What now?”

“Cute,” Adam says earnestly. “You are. Like a… bunny, or something. A bunny with no ears.” He laughs at his own joke as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Brandon rolls his eyes and muscles him out and down the hall.

“Key, Adam, where is it?”

“Pocket, prob’ly,” Adam says. He’s unreasonably sleepy all of a sudden. Maybe Brandon will hold him up while he takes a quick nap.

Brandon shakes him. “Focus, Adam! Get your damn card out, you weigh a fucking ton.”

Adam groans but manages to somehow retrieve the key card. Brandon snatches it from him and the door clicks open.

Inside, it’s dark and quiet. Brandon points him in the direction of the bed and Adam collapses on it happily, facedown in the pillows with a happy moan. He can hear Brandon moving around the room, then there are gentle fingers touching his ankle as he eases Adam’s shoes off his feet.

Adam wriggles his toes, which makes Brandon laugh and pat his calf before he stands again and goes into the bathroom. Water runs and then he’s back, a hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“Sit up, you need to drink some water.”

Adam moans again, this time in protest. He’s  _ comfortable. _ The only way he’d be more comfortable is if he had someone to cuddle.

Brandon squawks in protest as Adam finds a wrist and tugs him off-balance. He lands on the bed with a thump and Adam promptly wraps an arm around his waist.

“What the fuck, man? I spilled the water!”

“Shh,” Adam tells him, and falls asleep.

 

He wakes up alone, his head pounding. His mouth tastes like something crawled inside and died, and he whimpers, clutching his temples.

On the nightstand beside him is a bottle of Tylenol and a cup of water, and Adam’s head hurts too much to wonder at the miracle. He fumbles at the bottle blindly and tips several pills into his mouth, draining the water.

Then he flops back onto the bed, wincing, and waits for his headache to subside enough that he can shower.

When he’s finally clean and mostly functional, he shuffles down the hall to the elevator in search of breakfast. In the dining room, he’s hailed with delight and not a few chirps by his very heartless team, almost all of whom are doing serious damage to the buffet. Adam flips them off and grabs a plate. When he turns back, there’s an open seat next to Brandon, who’s eating omelettes and sausage and watching him, his eyes amused.

Adam flops down beside him. “What happened last night? We won, right?”

“We won, and you drank like it was a Cup run,” Brandon tells him. “And then told me I was cute.”

Adam boggles at him. “I what?”

Brandon’s lips twitch. “Eat your breakfast.”

Adam obeys, mostly because it looks delicious.

 

On the bus back to the airport, he plays Candy Crush while Brandon reads something on his phone. He smells good, Adam’s helpful nose tells him, like vanilla and cinnamon and aftershave.

“Are you still drunk?” Brandon asks, one eyebrow raised.

“What? No?”

“Then please stop sniffing me,” Brandon says, and goes back to reading.

Disgruntled, Adam sinks down in his seat and glowers at his phone. He can _ not _ seem to beat this level.

“Fucking chocolate,” he mutters under his breath.

They file onto the plane and once again, the seat beside Brandon is the only one available. Adam glances around, but no one’s looking at him. They’re all absorbed in their usual preflight rituals, talking quietly to each other, and finally Adam slings his bag into the overhead bin and slides into the seat beside Brandon.

“Pretty sure they’re doing it on purpose,” he mutters.

“Doing what?” Brandon asks absently.

Adam glances at him but Brandon’s still reading.

“Nothing.” He pulls his phone out and goes back to trying to beat the level.

 

After a week or two of home games, Adam forgets about his suspicion that his teammates are up to something. They’ve won two, lost one, and they have one more before they head to Boston.

He’s in the hall, talking to their equipment keeper about his chest protector, when Jack comes panting up to him, eyes wide with alarm.

“Adam, I need your help, come quick!” He drags Adam down the hall after him, moving too quickly for Adam to ask where they’re going. “It’s in there,” Jack says when he finally stops, pointing at a supply closet.

_ “What _ is?” Adam eyes the closet door warily.

“A kitten!” Jack says. “I saw it run in there so I closed the door and came to find you. Can you catch it for me?”

Well, that changes things.

“Don’t make any noise,” Adam says, and slips through the door into the closet. He stands still, letting his eyes adjust to the light, and it takes him a minute to realize he’s not alone.

“What the fuck is going on?” Brandon asks. He sounds exasperated but not angry, located somewhere toward the far end of the small space.

“I think… Jack pranked us. There’s no kitten, is there?”

“No, Adam, there’s no kitten.” Fabric rustles and then Brandon is close to him, barely a dim outline in the dark. 

“Lying about kittens, man, that’s  _ low.” _

Brandon sighs. “Let it go, dude. We need to get out of here.”

Adam reaches behind him and tries the handle. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s locked.

“Oh, come on!”

Brandon takes a step backward and trips over something. Adam lunges blindly, catching him before he can hit the floor.

“You okay?” he asks.

Brandon doesn’t answer for a minute. His eyes are wide and startled in the dim room. “I—you can let me go.”

“Can’t have you spraining something right before a road trip,” Adam points out, but he sets him back on his feet. Then he turns to the door again, jiggling the handle. “Come on, guys, this isn’t funny anymore!”

There’s no answer from the hallway.

“Maybe we can break it down,” Adam suggests.

“It opens inward,” Brandon says gently, and Adam feels stupid.

“Do you have your phone on you?”

“No.” Brandon sounds despondent. 

“Well, mine’s almost dead, but maybe—” Adam pulls it out and considers. “Who should I call? And if you say Ghostbusters, I’ll nutpunch you.”

“I wasn’t  _ going _ to,” Brandon protests, but he sounds amused again, which makes Adam’s heart lighten. “Try Blake. Or Scheifs.”

Wheeler doesn’t answer, making Adam wonder darkly about him being in on it. Thankfully, Mark picks up on the second ring.

“Where are you?”

“In a supply closet below the—” The phone cuts off and Adam swears. He shoves it back in his pocket and feels his way along the wall to where Brandon is leaning. “This is so stupid. Stuck in the dark and there aren’t even any  _ kittens.” _

Brandon laughs quietly. “Don’t ever change, Adam.”

“Okay?” Adam says. “Wasn’t planning to. I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but no. Besides, you always complain about my baking.”

“That doesn’t mean you should stop feeding me,” Adam says reasonably. “What would I do if I couldn’t complain about your food?”

“It’s true that you probably can’t complain with your mouth full,” Brandon muses.

Adam snickers.

“That’s not—why do you have to make everything dirty?”

“Because it’s fun, duh.” He jostles Brandon’s shoulder. “C’mon man, lighten up. There’s no one I’d rather be stuck in a closet with.”

Brandon draws a breath. “Adam—”

The door swings open and Mark is revealed in the sudden light from the hall that makes them both blink owlishly.

“Why are you guys hiding in a closet?” he asks.

“It wasn’t our idea, believe me.” Brandon brushes past and sets off down the hall.

Adam slaps Mark on the shoulder. “Thanks for the rescue, man. You’re my hero.” He jogs to catch up with Brandon. “You’re gonna help me get Jack, right?”

Brandon slants a look up at him. “What did you have in mind?”

 

Shaving cream in Jack’s skates is perhaps not the most elegant of revenge pranks, but Jack’s outraged bellow when he shoves a foot in makes it worth it. Adam catches Brandon’s eye across the locker room and they grin at each other.

 

The Bruins game is chippy and nasty. Brandon takes a hit and goes down hard, and Adam sees red. He doesn’t remember dropping his gloves, but every punch he lands fills him with savage glee. Miller fights back, but he doesn’t have Adam’s reach. When they’re separated, Adam heads for the tunnel, jaw clenched. He wants to go to Brandon, make sure he’s okay, but he knows Brandon wouldn’t thank him for treating him like spun glass in the heart of enemy territory.

Brandon gets in a fight with a rookie a little later in the game, and Adam joins in the stick taps and loud cheering as they’re pulled apart. Brandon shoots him a glance that’s dark and predatory as he skates past. His lip is bleeding and he looks almost feral, dangerous in a way he usually doesn’t. Adam grins at him, gratified when Brandon’s lips twitch just briefly.

 

Back home in Winnipeg, they have a day off, and Adam intends to enjoy it thoroughly. It’s snowy and wet outside, but inside it’s warm and dry and cozy.

Until the heat kicks off and won’t come back on no matter how much Adam fiddles with the thermostat and swears at it.

A call to his landlord doesn’t produce much joy. He can’t send a repairman out until the following day at the earliest, so sorry, does Adam have somewhere to go?

Adam glares at the phone and starts calling teammates.

Jack cheerfully tells him to go fuck himself and hangs up on him.

Mark laughs but he sounds sympathetic when he tells Adam he’s got guests and no room for him. Has he tried Brandon?

Adam’s scowl intensifies.

Laine, Buff, and Wheeler all give him the same answer, variations on the theme of ‘sorry Adam, no room at the inn’.

“It’s a goddamn conspiracy!” Adam shouts. He shivers, standing in his kitchen in his sock feet, and finally calls Brandon.

“Of course,” Brandon says, sounding surprised. “Come on over.”

Adam throws a few things in a bag and calls a car.

 

Brandon opens the door wearing an apron, flour dusting one cheek, and the smell of cookies waft past him, making Adam’s mouth water.

“Hi,” Brandon says, smiling up at him.

“I tried, like, everyone on the team first,” Adam says.

Brandon’s smile slips. “Okay?”

“Everyone’s busy or has guests or they’re remodeling. Who remodels in this weather?” Adam slings his bag onto the floor by the couch and drops onto the cushions.

“I’m so glad you thought of me before a hotel,” Brandon says, and he sounds irritated as he stalks back into the kitchen.

Adam peers over the back of the couch at him, but Brandon isn’t looking at him, busy pulling a tray from the oven and dropping it on the counter. He shoves another tray in, then sets a timer and turns to slide the hot cookies onto the rack.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Adam asks.

Brandon glances up at him, brows drawn together.

“You took that puck to the back yesterday,” Adam says. “It’s gotta hurt.”

Brandon shrugs. “I’ll live.”

“I can put some arnica on it or something, if you want,” Adam offers.

Brandon’s face does something complicated that Adam can’t parse, but finally he shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

Adam shrugs and flops backward, digging around for the remote. He watches TV for a while as Brandon putters in the kitchen. It’s nice—homey and relaxing, listening to Brandon talk to himself, the sound of the TV a low, comfortable hum, and he falls asleep without realizing it.

When he blinks awake, Brandon is curled up at the end of the sofa, feet tucked under him. There’s a plate of cookies beside Adam’s head, and he props himself on an elbow and picks one up.

“Why haven’t you been snatched up yet by some pretty girl who can appreciate you properly?” Adam asks around a mouthful of chocolate chips and pecans.

Brandon winces. “Probably because they’re all scared off by your manners.”

Adam laughs, scattering cookie crumbs, and Brandon sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.

 

They watch TV in comfortable silence for a while, and Adam generously offers to buy dinner for them.

“It’s only fair,” he points out when Brandon puts up a token protest. “I’m the one freeloading off you.”

“Technically it’s not freeloading if you buy dinner,” Brandon says, but he doesn’t argue further.

They bicker amiably about what movie to watch with dinner, but finally settle on a Ryan Reynolds film that Brandon hasn’t seen yet.

Halfway through, Adam nudges him with an elbow. “Hey. Who’s hotter? Salma Hayek or Elodie Yung?”

Brandon doesn’t answer for a few minutes. “Reynolds,” he finally says, tilting his chin as if daring Adam to argue.

Adam laughs, but Brandon doesn’t, eyes steady on Adam’s face until he trails off.

“Oh, you’re serious,” Adam says.

Brandon raises an eyebrow.

And that—huh. Adam sits back against the cushions and considers. It makes sense, he supposes—the way Brandon’s never very interested in picking up, the way he prefers to stay with the guys instead of mingling with the pretty girls who are inevitably drawn to them when they go out.

He’s so lost in thought that he misses how tense Brandon is until he nearly hurls himself off the couch.

“Going to bed, goodnight!” he announces, and bolts.

Adam’s left staring after him, not sure what just happened.

After a minute, he turns the volume up and gets back into the movie. Reynolds  _ is _ hot, after all. It’d be a shame to not appreciate him properly.

 

He’s half-asleep on the couch, slouched comfortably on his side with the blanket from the back pulled over him when Brandon’s odd behavior finally sinks in and he sits bolt upright.

“Oh!” Adam smacks himself on the forehead. “You’re an idiot, Lowry.” He gets up and tiptoes down the hall to Brandon’s bedroom. It’s silent inside, and Adam hesitates briefly, then knocks and pushes the door open. “Brandon?”

“Adam?” Brandon sounds groggy as he props himself on his elbows. “You okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” Adam stands there for a minute, unsure what to say.

“Spit it out, man, I’m trying to sleep.” The words are irritated, but Adam can hear the nerves in Brandon’s voice, and he swallows guilt.

“I should have said. Um. When you said. You know. What you said.”

Brandon sighs. “Adam.”

“I accept you exactly the way you are!” Adam shouts, and slams the door shut to beat a hasty retreat.

He’s curled up on the sofa with the blanket over his head when Brandon opens his door and comes padding softly down the hall.

Adam squeezes his eyes shut and pretends to be asleep. Brandon crouches in front of him and tugs lightly on the blanket.

“Adam. Hey.”

“I’m asleep,” Adam says. “Go away.”

Brandon laughs quietly. “Come on, man, talk to me.”

Adam scowls but he lowers the blanket. Brandon’s eyes are soft in the moonlight from the window, and his smile makes something tug low in Adam’s belly.

“Thank you,” Brandon says. “That couldn’t have been easy to say.”

“No big deal,” Adam mumbles, lifting a shoulder.

“No, it is,” Brandon insists. “Especially considering what we do for a living. Are you—” He hesitates. “Are you sure you’re okay with it?”

“Of course,” Adam says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Brandon just nods. “Okay. I won’t—I would never check you or anyone else out in the showers or anything. You know that, right?”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Duh.”

“Just making sure,” Brandon says, amusement threading his tone. “But you’re… I don’t know—not going to be weird about it?”

“You’re the only one making it weird,” Adam points out. 

Brandon grins, dimple flashing. “Okay.” He pats Adam’s knee and stands. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

Somehow, it’s easy to meet Brandon’s eyes the next day, to smile at him and mean it, to share a cab to the rink and jostle him playfully as they get ready for practice. It’s still just Brandon, with his slow, sweet smile and thoughtful eyes, his silky hands on passes and sixth sense for where Adam is on the ice.

 

They win their next home game and leave the same evening for the next road trip. By now, Adam’s stopped even trying to find somewhere else to sit. He plops into the seat beside Brandon without looking anywhere else, and is rewarded with a smile that he returns.

“So we should find you someone to date,” Adam says, and Brandon drops his phone.

“Sorry,  _ what?” _

“You heard me,” Adam says, unperturbed.

Brandon scrambles to find the phone where it’s fallen under his feet, staring at Adam incredulously as he gropes for it. “Are you insane?” he hisses once he finds it. “I can’t—I’m not  _ looking _ for a—a date. Or anything. I  _ can’t.” _

“Why not?” Adam glances around the plane. “You think the team would care?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t  _ know.” _

“Well, I don’t. And I know Buff wouldn’t. And if you have me and Buff on your side, who’s gonna have the balls to be a bigot to you?”

Brandon laughs half-hysterically, rubbing his face. “You—Adam, I—”

Adam pats his knee. “We’re gonna find you a nice boy, you wait and see.”

Brandon’s groan is a little theatrical, in Adam’s opinion, but he lets it slide.

“Anyway, Buff knows,” Brandon mumbles. “So do Blake and Scheifs. And, uh… Jack. And Laine?”

Adam stares at him. “Seriously? Seriously.  _ They _ all know, but you didn’t bother telling me?”

“I did tell you,” Brandon protests feebly, looking everywhere but Adam’s eyes.

“Weak.” Adam folds his arms and glares at the seat in front of him. He’s not sure what name to put to the spiky ball twisting in his chest at the thought of most of the core players on the team knowing his closest friend’s secret when he himself didn’t.

“Adam,” Brandon says softly.

“It’s fine. You thought you couldn’t trust me. Whatever. I’m gonna—” Adam stands abruptly and strides for the back of the plane. There’s a seat open near the bathroom, and he takes it, crossing his arms again and staring out the window.

He’d thought—it doesn’t matter what he’d thought. Brandon was just trying to keep himself safe, and deep down in his gut, Adam knows that. Still, it  _ hurts. _

 

The game that night is a disaster. Adam is uncoordinated and off-kilter, unable to connect with plays. His forechecking is dismal and he takes several big hits because he isn’t watching his surroundings closely enough.

They lose, to no one’s surprise, and straggle off the ice without looking at each other. Adam knows Brandon is shooting him imploring glances, but he ignores them as he strips down and heads for the showers.

They fly out the same night, and Adam sits as far from Brandon as possible, which he achieves by kicking Brendan from his place at the back of the plane beside Laine.

“Beat it, infant,” he says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Patrik’s younger than me,” Brendan protests, but he’s already getting up from his seat.

Adam sits down, ignoring Laine, who’s slanting a look at him.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“Uh huh.” Laine doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t push the issue.

 

Adam is unsurprised to find Blake waiting for him on the tarmac.

“A word.”

Adam shrugs like he doesn’t care and they move out of the way of the workers, away from earshot. 

“What’d you say to Brandon?” Blake asks.

Adam automatically bristles. “How do you know it’s not what he said to me? Why am I the one in trouble?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Blake says immediately. “Neither is he. But you two are thick as thieves one day and now you’re not even speaking. So what happened?”

“Ask him,” Adam says mulishly.

Blake sighs. “Adam.”

“It’s private, okay?” Adam hunches his shoulders, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Blake searches his face but finally nods. “Alright. I’m here if you need anything.”

“Like relationship counseling?” Adam snaps, and then winces. “Sorry. Um, I didn’t—sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Blake says gently. “Just try talking to him, okay? Preferably before you guys tank our chances at a Cup run.”

“Low blow, Captain,” Adam mutters.

 

They win the next game on their road trip, although it’s more despite Adam and Brandon than because of them. Adam still hasn’t figured out how to stop the hurt that spikes through him when he remembers that half the team knew about Brandon before he did.

So he stays as far away as he can and doesn’t look at Brandon any more than he has to, and after a while, Brandon stops watching Adam’s every move like a puppy expecting to be kicked. Somehow, that just hurts worse, but Adam’s come this far and he’s not backing down now.

It gets harder when Brandon strains his knee at the end of the third period, but he’s able to skate off the ice and get down the tunnel under his own steam, and he walks to the plane with only a slight limp, so Adam grits his teeth and doesn’t hover.

 

It’s on the way back to Winnipeg that things hit boiling point.

Adam’s in his now-customary seat at the back of the plane, hotly arguing about Game of Thrones with Laine when Mason comes down the aisle holding a cup of coffee. Adam’s not entirely sure how it happens—if the plane hits a pocket of turbulence or Mason trips, but the end result is the same: Adam ends up with a lapful of lukewarm coffee.

He jolts up out of his seat with a startled yell, making everyone’s heads whip around.

“What the fuck, Mason!”

Mason begins apologizing profusely, but Adam doesn’t stop to listen. He’s  _ dripping, _ sweet milky coffee beginning to puddle on the carpet, so he runs for the bathroom.

Safely inside the tiny room—it’s a private jet, why are the bathrooms still the size of postage stamps, he wonders—he steps out of his pants and turns on the cold water in the microscopic sink. He’s bent over, scrubbing futilely at the largest part of the stain, when the door opens behind him.

Adam turns just in time to end up with his arms full of Brandon, who’s apparently been shoved through the door by at least half the team. Adam loses his balance and sits down hard on the closed toilet seat and Brandon springs away like he’s been burned. He ends up with his shoulders pressed to the wall on the other side of the room. Their feet are still touching.

Flags of color are high on Brandon’s dusky cheekbones, and he looks  _ furious. _

“What the fuck?” Adam demands for the second time in as many minutes. He pitches his voice to be heard outside the room. “This isn’t funny, you assholes!”

“Adam.” That’s Blake’s voice and Adam gasps in outrage. That  _ traitor. _ “Talk to each other.”

“Let us out!” Brandon yells, jiggling the door handle futilely.

“When you’ve sorted your shit out,” Blake says firmly. “Pitch a fit all you want—neither of you are leaving until you’ve dealt with this.”

Silence falls and Adam puts his face in his hands. Brandon shifts his weight and sighs.

“Are they talking?” Buff rumbles. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Fuck off!” Adam shouts, lifting his head. He risks a glance at Brandon, still in the same position. Even crammed up against the wall, Adam’s legs are so long and the room so small that his knees are brushing Brandon’s thighs. “Your knee—you should sit down,” he says.

Brandon doesn’t move. “You’re too tall to fit in here,” he points out, and it’s true—the sloping bulkhead makes it impossible for Adam to stand up straight.

Adam calls down silent curses on his entire team roster. “Sit on my lap.”

Brandon gives him an incredulous look. “No thank you.” But he’s shifting his weight and it’s clear his knee’s bothering him. 

Adam pats his lap. “Stop being a stubborn asshole and sit down. They’re not letting us out of here anytime soon.” 

“I would rather die,” Brandon says primly, but just then the airplane hits a pocket of turbulence and he staggers, pain flashing across his face.

“Sit. Down,” Adam says through his teeth.

Brandon chews his lip for a minute, then eases himself down onto Adam’s thighs.

Adam realizes immediately what a bad idea that was. Brandon is warm and solid and heavy in his lap, and he smells incredible, as usual. He’s sitting facing the door, so Adam has a perfect view of the tiny hairs that curl enticingly at the nape of his neck. He has an overwhelming urge to rub his cheek against them, and he swallows hard, holding very still.

They don’t speak for a few minutes, and Adam runs through quadratic equations in his head to keep from having inappropriate thoughts. It doesn’t help at all.

It’s made worse when Brandon shifts his weight and rubs against him. Adam catches his breath and Brandon swears, leaning away.

“Sorry, did I squish something?”

_ Yes, but not what you’re thinking. _ Adam’s uncomfortably hard in his boxers, and it’s far too close to Brandon’s ass for comfort. 

Brandon tips his head up—baring his throat, Adam notices despairingly. “Chocolate chips. Flour. Pecans. Brown sugar. White sugar. Butter. Vanilla. Eggs.”

“What are you doing?” Adam asks in spite of himself.

“Trying to distract myself,” Brandon snaps. “This is… a lot.”

Adam suppresses the urge to bang his head against the wall. Now he’s horny  _ and _ hungry.

“I’m sorry,” Brandon says softly. He’s looking down at the floor and Adam has to lean forward to hear him over the engine.

“No,” Adam says, shaking his head, arousal briefly forgotten. “I’m not—it’s your story to tell when you’re ready, okay?  _ I’m _ sorry. I shouldn’t have overreacted like that.”

Brandon shifts enough to look at him. His eyes are very serious. “I want to tell you why.”

“Okay.”

But Brandon hesitates, brows drawn together. “I’m—” He chews his lip. “I’m afraid you’ll take it badly.”

“Why would I take it badly? It’s you. Unless you’re going to say you didn’t tell me because you secretly hate me or something.”

Brandon coughs a laugh. “No.” He hunches his shoulders briefly. “Kind of the opposite, actually.”

And that’s—oh. Adam’s never considered himself terribly swift, but he’d have to be dead to miss the way Brandon’s looking at him through his lashes, still chewing on his lip, nerves clearly strung taut like piano wire.

“I told them because I don’t care what they think,” Brandon says. “Or at least, I don’t care about them the way I—” He falters. “Um. God. Forget it.” He pounds on the door of the bathroom. “Let us  _ out, _ you assholes!”

Adam catches his wrist and pulls it away from the door. Brandon’s breath hitches and he turns. His eyes are huge and dark and Adam can see himself reflected in them.

“A-Adam?”

Adam slides a hand up Brandon’s back to cup the nape of his neck, holding his gaze. He doesn’t miss the shudder that gets him, or the way Brandon’s eyes slip shut briefly. Adam squeezes lightly, then moves higher, scratching lightly over Brandon’s skull.

Brandon makes a choked noise, twisting to face him, and then they’re kissing, wet and messy and frantic. He tastes sweet and milky, like coffee with cream, and Adam can’t get enough. He slips his tongue between Brandon’s lips and swallows Brandon’s whimper as he balances them with a hand on Brandon’s hip.

“Want you,” he pants when Brandon tears himself away so they can breathe. “Fuck, Bran, I want—”

Brandon presses their foreheads together, his breathing ragged. “Adam,” he whispers. “Adam, you never—”

Adam leans in for another kiss. “I like girls too,” he says against Brandon’s mouth. “Guys are fun but girls are… safer.” He shrugs. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Brandon loops his arms around Adam’s neck and kisses his way along his jaw. “You know they’ve been trying to set us up for months?”

“The—ah—team?” Adam manages. In his defense, Brandon’s mouth is  _ very _ distracting.

Brandon nips sharply at his earlobe and Adam jerks. “I told them to stop, but then you didn’t even  _ notice, _ so I figured… why not?” He lifts his head, smiling down at him. “It was nice being with you.”

Adam gasps suddenly. “Did they really turn off the heat in my building?”

He loves Brandon’s laugh, he thinks, rich and warm and happy.

“No,” Brandon finally says when he’s managed to sober. “That was a coincidence. They just capitalized on it.”

Adam grumbles and tugs him back down. 

“Cheer up,” Brandon says against his mouth, and Adam kisses the curve of his smile. “I’ll help you prank them.”

Adam grins. “Any chance I can blow you before we go back out to face them?”

Brandon shivers. “We are  _ not _ having sex in the bathroom.” His eyes turn wicked. “At least not the first time.”

Adam can work with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Simple as 1 2 3 by Jukebox the Ghost - "Everything you touch turns to gold". 
> 
> [Come talk to me about dumb hockey boys!](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com)
> 
> (Best comment on this comes from my beta: "Adam Lowry is Latin for dumbass."


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